Blossomed From The Stars
by ItsBlue1223
Summary: Teenlock AU - John can hardly stand that Sherlock is never able to finish his tests in their astronomy class, so he offers to help him complete it. From there on, John feels as if he and Sherlock could become closer friends, only to find out that Sherlock hadn't planned it to go that way. Still, John can't shake the eerie feeling that maybe-perhaps-Sherlock is hiding something


John sat in astronomy class, twirling his pencil in between his fingers. He sighed and stared blankly down at the test that rested at his elbows. _One question left_, he thought to himself. He scrunched his eyebrows together and read over the sentence yet again. It didn't make any sense at all. He tapped the end of his pencil against his cheek, drumming his nails against the wooden desk. Most students had already placed their tests atop the teacher's desk, and were ruffling through homework from other classes. He sighed and ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair in exasperation. Only two students—including him—had not finished their tests and only minutes were left of the class.

Quickly, he closed his eyes and drew a circle around a random answer. He was more than confident; even if the question were to be marked wrong he would get nothing less than an A on it. Smiling softly to himself, he stood up and walked over to the teacher. She smiled up at him and collected the tests with his on top. She glanced up at the remaining student, letting out a sigh of her own. John casted a small look over to the remaining kid and shook his head. Sherlock Holmes stared down at his paper, the pencil left abandoned at the top of his desk. His hands were placed underneath his chin and his eyes were glazed over in thought. John managed to see that not one question was answered on the test aside from his name and the date scribbled across the top. His hand writing was shit, but it reminded John of how many of his idols wrote—messily and without a concern that it would be difficult to read because they could.

The bell let out its usual toll and everyone collected their bags and headed out the door, making their way to another class or perhaps lunch. A group of girls giggled and looked over at John. He gave them a small smile and they fell into fits of laughter and scooted out the door. John placed his books slowly into his backpack, occasionally looking between Sherlock and their teacher. She pursed her lips at him impatiently, glaring at his immobile state.

Licking his lips, he slowly walked over to her. "Excuse me, Ms. Mable, if I may…" She nodded over at him, allowing him to continue. "I realize that Mr. Holmes is an usual of these sorts of actions and perhaps your patience has run thin with his shenanigans, but if I may be so bold as to suggest that a tad bit of help would be ideal?"

Ms. Mable scoffed at John, lowering the glasses that perched on her nose at him. "I understand your willingness to help Mr. Holmes, but he is a very intelligent lad and should be able—"

"With all due respect, ma'am, but just because he is intelligent doesn't mean that he excels in this class. Smart people are allowed to have difficulties, as well." She sighed at John, nodding her head at him. "So, you'll allow me to assist him?"

"If it means he gets the test completed, then by all means." She pushed back from the desk and walked over to the phone. "I'll call both of your teachers to inform them you'll be with me for this period." Her fingers wrapped around the phone stuck to the wall and walked out to the hall. John nodded his head at her and turned to Sherlock.

He remained unmoved from his position. John thought it was strange that he could remain so still for such an extended period of time. Tilting his head to the side, he looked him over. He noticed the dark curls that framed his face, his cheekbones clearly defined and nicely angled. His light eyes remained unmoved from their gaze onto the paper, as if they stared at it with extreme terror. Sherlock was a thin and lightly-built character, his skin the color of snowy morning sky. Several girls would whisper about him as he made his ways through the halls about how stunningly beautiful he was. They would murmur what they liked and giggled amongst themselves before softly scolding one another; gently reminding that he was an odd fellow and therefore should not be reckoned with. John always found it strange that they would say that. If you like him, make an effort to stand out and get to know him, for Christ's sake. He might even be more normal than you expect.

With a heavy breath, he strode down the aisles between the desks, coming to a stop next to the dark-haired boy's. He was still, his thin fingers pressed into the soft flesh of the underside of his jaw. It seemed accustomed to his position, bending smoothly around the probing digits. Awkwardly, he sat down in the sea right beside Sherlock, clearing his throat as he sunk down. Sherlock didn't notice. John looked down at the paper, placing his hand over where he guessed Sherlock's eyes were trained. The intrusion upon his vision stirred the boy. He seemed to be yanked from a dream, slowly retracting from his thoughts. His head snapped to the side, his eyes meeting with John's. The two boys stared at one another for a moment before Sherlock blinked several times. "May I help you?" His voice was gruff and slightly rusty from lack of use, cracking in several places.

John smiled kindly at him, shaking his head from side to side. "I'm actually here to help you, Sherlock." The other boy cocked an eyebrow at him, throwing him a skeptical look. John laughed softly. "Here, it isn't all that difficult, actually."

"I know," was Sherlock's curt response. John stared at him confused. "I just choose to throw out this useless information to make room for more important matters."

"Such as?"

"An example, if that is what you are requesting, would be my deduction abilities. They matter ever so much to me." His voiced had smoothed, turning into a low purr, almost. John swallowed at the sound, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. He didn't quite understand what Sherlock meant. The other let out an annoyed breath and turned to the paper of lacking questions. A frustrated look crossed his face.

John looked at him sympathetically. "I'm here to help, Sherlock," he said softly, retracting his hand from the paper. Sherlock snatched the pen from its placement on his desk and poised it over the first question. John read it, smiling to himself. _Easy one_, he said to himself. "What are stars composed of?" He read aloud, looking over at Sherlock.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance. What was the point of such a foolish question? He huffed out a breath and stared harder at the question. John remarked that it wouldn't help answer it by glowering at it. Sherlock cracked a small smile, wiping it off his face as quickly as it came.

John licked his lips. "Stars are composed of several things. But, they mostly consist of…? He prodded, willing Sherlock to remember it from class or from the several homework assignments. But, from the angry expression the darker haired male wore, it was evident it wasn't there. "I can't _tell_ you the answer, exactly. But, perhaps I can help you eliminate what it isn't." His finger fell over to one of the options. "Oxygen and nitrogen are not elements that are in stars. Rather, two of them begin with an 'H'. Therefore, the only option would be…"

"Hydrogen and helium," Sherlock replied, making a circle around the answer. John grinned over at him, nodding his head excitedly. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye. "I did well?" John laughed and nodded, again.

"You did exceptionally well, Sherlock." He patted the other on the back before moving onto the next question, repeating his process on that one, as well. The pair sat where they were for the remainder of that period and even a bit into their lunch period before they finished. Sherlock stared down at the completed sheet with a bit of pride gleaming in his eyes. John smiled at him, patting him on the back in a congratulatory manner.

Sherlock glanced over at him, setting his pen down back onto the desk. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as if he were expressing a means of thanks. "That was appreciated, John. Thank you very much."

"It's my pleasure, Sherlock. If you'd like, perhaps we could study together. And, if you are still having trouble on tests, Ms. Mable could arrange for me to assist you during your tests. I am sure that will help with your grades." Sherlock gave a curt nod before standing up from his seat and strode over to the desk at the front of the class and smoothed the paper onto its flat surface.

"That sounds like an exceptional idea, my dear Watson. I look forward to that arrangement being set in motion. Until then, I must bid you ado." He gave a small bow before strutting out the door. He didn't even have a bag with him to carry his items with.

John stared after him for a moment. He let out a breath and shook his head, slinging his bag over his shoulder and making his way out the door. Several students passed by, wearing smug smirks and an evil gleam in their eyes. John narrowed his eyes at them, but shrugged it off as prep school arrogance—the usual deal in the school he attended. But, it did leave him uneasy. He knew those people were notorious for bothering students—particularly Sherlock. Be it as it may, Sherlock did nothing to bother anyone, aside from act a bit strange. What did he ever do to deserve such unjust torture?

Months pass as if they were pressed to one another, like the pages of a book. John made his way through school, doing well in every class. He would occasionally see Sherlock in the halls, wearing that same glassy look he had while he stared down at that test, as if lost in an extremely important thought. Several people would snarl and jeer at the boy, but he never seemed to notice.

At least, that's what John thought at first.

He was walking out of school a late afternoon, coming from staying to tutor a ninth year basic biology—something he excelled in profoundly. Walking around the building, he managed to see Sherlock sitting on the bench pressed to the side of the building. He opened his mouth to say something, but faltered when he caught sight of the expression on his face. It wasn't your typical completely destroyed expression, but it was something much deeper. John felt his breath hitch in his throat at the sight of him. His eyebrows were softly pushed together, his mouth turned down at the corners. His fingers gripped the edge of the wood hard enough to splinter the wood. But, it was his eyes that made John clutch at his chest in pain. They were no longer glossed over, but rather pained far deeper than anyone had ever seen before. They told stories of everything anyone had ever said to him. "Freak" "Weirdo" "Outcast" among others flashed across John's mind—and that was just what _he_ had heard. He couldn't imagine what others Sherlock had heard.

And it pained John.

Sighing, he sank back and walked the other direction as not to disturb him. He knew enough about the other boy to know he wouldn't have opened up to John as others might have at a moment of utter weakness. It was simply Sherlock's nature to close himself away from any and all people around him. It was a blessing and a curse, John found. Still, he wouldn't question Sherlock's methods.

It was a late, lazy Saturday afternoon that stirred John from his room. He had locked himself in said room due to Harry and her girlfriend of several years, Clara, making out in the family room. No matter who you were, making out with your significant other was _not_ a family affair; therefore he felt it would be more appropriate to so such activities in a much more private area, specifically one's room. However, Harry Watson wasn't one to play by rules laid down by her baby brother.

A light knock caused John to drop the book he held in his hands and stride over to answer it. Clara stood on the either side, her bright, red hair a shock to him. He blinked down at her, a shy smile spreading across his face. "How may I help you, Clara?" The girl giggled behind her hand, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Her blue eyes stared back at John's, a hint of mischief glinting across them. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her. "Harry would like your company in the family room," she purred, her voice as high and soft as a bell. Turning around, she swayed her hips dramatically away, throwing a wink over her shoulder at the boy with a smirk. He rolled his eyes and followed after her. They hopped down the spiral staircase to find Harry lounging on the couch, her arms spread across the back of the sofa. Clara skipped over to her, snuggling into his sister's side with a content sigh. Harry's arm fell into place in the crook of the red-head's crook between her neck and shoulder.

"Baby brother," Harry said her voice lower and gruffer than Clara's, but still very much feminine. Still, John always teased her for having a deeper voice than most girls. "You must be wondering why I summoned you down here." John gave a small grunt in answer. She chuckled, kissing Clara's cheek. John rolled his eyes at the pair. "Well, I have a few questions for you… You hanging with that Holmes kid?"

John's eyes snapped over to his older sister, her wavy, brown hair curling around her face, framing her pale and round face. A curious smile curved the corners of her mouth, a permanent grin plastered to her face. She cocked a perfect eyebrow at her brother. "To which do you refer? There are two of them."

Harry let out an annoyed breath. "The one still in high school, ignoramus." Clara snickered at him, nuzzling her nose into Harry's hair, the contrast of her red against his sister's dark color.

"Not entirely, dear sister. I'm acquainted with Sherlock, but we have not been….hanging," he replied. Harry made a humming sound, nodding her head slowly as if to say "Riiiiiiight…." He huffed an annoyed breath at his sister. "It is nothing more, Harriet."

She groaned at the name, both knowing full and well that she hated the name. John smirked at her. She simply glared at him in return. "Be that as it may, people have started talking. You best watch yourself boy, or else the student body will chew you up and spit you out."

"I'm sure I can handle a few morons."

"Ah, yes, but morons always have a lasting bite," she remarked, tapping her chin with her finger. "Still, I just want you to be safe. Despite our feuds, I do love and care about you, Johnny. Stay safe, all right?" He nodded. "Good." She flashed a quick smile to her brother before returning her attention to Clara, pressing their lips together in a heated kiss. John made a gagging noise and walked back up the stairs.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but feel as if Harry had a point in what she said. Perhaps it would be best to stay clear of Sherlock. Still, she couldn't have waited for him to have left the room to swap spit with Clara? John always found that irritating of his sister. She didn't have any patience.

It was the late evening when John made his way down the stairs once more. Mrs. Watson had just set down their supper on the table; her dirty blonde hair that matched John's twisted into a tight bun atop her head. She smiled at her son, a sort of tired look in her eyes. John shuffled over to her, resting his hand on her forearm. "I have it, Mum," he said to her, gingerly taking the stack of plates out of her grasp. "Go rest. Work must have been exhausting." Mrs. Watson smiled at him, ruffling his hair. She muttered that he was a good boy and planted a kiss on his cheek. John watched as she slowly walked up the stairs and heard the click of her door closing.

Sighing, he set the table. Harry and Clara must have been in Harry's room, working on their calculus homework. Harry was terrible at it and Clara was a pro, therefore they worked well together. Clara got credits for community work for tutoring and Harry was able to pass the class. A nice compromise, they felt.

The sound of soft patter caused John to glance at the ground. Their fat cat, Hamish, sauntered over to him. John grinned down at him, running a hand down the feline's back. His fur was soft and silky, as it was when he was a tiny kitten.

His fingers wrapped around either side of the cat's body and he lifted him up. He nuzzled his nose deep into the thick mane of hair. A deep purring noise vibrated its body, a sound of happiness. John giggled and set the cat down, dusting off the stray hairs off of his shirt. He placed the remaining plates on the table, adjusting the cloth. Harry and Clara rounded their way into the kitchen, their fingers intertwined. Clara had pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail; Harry's still loose around her shoulders. She pulled out a chair for her girlfriend, gesturing for her to sit down. Clara smiled at her, pecking her on the nose with a kiss. Harry giggled at her, taking the seat next to her. John sighed and grabbed the bowls of food and started scooping it onto Harry's palate. "Remember, Johnny, I'm going vegan so nothing with animal products." She smirked up at her younger brother who glared at her in return. He dropped green beans and mashed potatoes onto her plate and moved onto Clara's, repeating his actions along with adding a slab of meat onto the red head's plate. Harriet stared down at her plate. "Is this all I get?" She whined, looking to her brother.

John let out a frustrated breath, placing the bowl on the table. "That's all we have for you, Harry. You know how Mum likes to plan meals by the month and you just _had_ to choose to go vegan last week. Therefore, as it is, Mummy had to alter several of the dishes so you wouldn't go without. Now, excuse me for not being able to accommodate more than that for your dining pleasure." He slumped down into his seat, helping himself to a few scoops of each dish. Harry blinked at her brother in surprise, Clara holding a green bean before her lips. They glanced at each other before returning to stare at John. Irked, he tried to his best to ignore them and eat his meal, but Harry was having none of that.

"When did you think it was okay to talk back to me?"

"Harry, I'm sure John is just a bit tired. School can be like that."

John snorted and smirked down at his plate. "Like you would know that, Harry. You barely scrape by with a C." Harry licked her lips irritated at her brother. Taking a deep breath, she stabbed viciously at the vegetables before her. Clara looked nervously between the two siblings, nibbling on a piece of meat on her fork.

The remainder of the meal was spent in tense silence; the only sounds were the scraping of metal against porcelain. When they had finished, Harry shoved her seat back, grabbed Clara's hand, and rushed them up the stairs. Clara threw an apologetic glance over her shoulder. Clara was entirely loyal to Harry, constantly teasing John. But, she knew when it was a good time to stop. Harry, on the other hand, evidently did not. She was arrogant in that sense.

It was moments like that that caused John to form a tiny grudge against his sister—like anyone with siblings can attest to be truth—but, he could never hold onto them for long. Harry, however, would hold onto it for the rest of eternity, it felt. That's why he always felt a twinge of guilt after such events. But, he couldn't get too caught up in them. The past is the past, he would tell himself. And it is best left in the past.

School the next day was like any other. He took tests, passed in projects, did his homework in his free time, talked with his mates, the like. The only difference being that he would watch Sherlock. Not in a creepy way, but just to make sure no one was bothering him. Several people would whisper amongst themselves like they normally would. They thought Sherlock couldn't hear them, but the way his head tilted in their direction at the mention of his name said otherwise. Still, he held that cold and calculated gaze he was notorious for. He was strong, John noted. But, he knew that wasn't the whole truth.

Sherlock didn't have many friends—he didn't have any at all, really. Greg Lestrade was the closet John counted as one. Greg was kind to him, always polite and watching what he said to him as not to startle him like one would with a timid deer. Sherlock would give short and emotionless responses, making remarks about several people. Greg wanted to be a detective inspector after he got out of university and he had noticed that Sherlock was very good at observing, therefore he saw a use in him. It pained John to realize that was really the only reason he would talk to Sherlock, but at least he wasn't be rude to Sherlock, which was a bonus.

Lunch flashed by and John walked behind Sherlock in the halls, his books pressed to his chest. Sherlock walked with long, slow strides, so John had to walk at a quicker pace to keep close enough to him. If one were to ask him why he was following Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't have been able to supply a valid answer. Was it because he wanted to help Sherlock in school because he had a bleeding heart and felt for him? Or, was it because Sherlock was just another thing for him to use to better himself in his future field of study. John winced at the idea of the latter being true, never dwelling on it for more than a moment. He didn't like to think of himself as one to use someone, he was only human, and the option was always on the table, no matter how much you denied it.

The halls were relatively clear. The only people in the halls were them and a few other students that quickly made their way past the pair. John trained his eyes on the ground, the heels of Sherlock's shoes occasionally coming into view. Because of that, he didn't see Sherlock stop in his tracks and slammed into him. John let out a muffled grunt and stumbled back, apologizing profusely. He glanced up at Sherlock, his back still turned towards him. He noticed Sherlock run his hand over the front of his shirt, straightening it.

When the other turned to John, he felt his breath hitch in his throat. Sherlock fixed a cold and judging gaze onto him, his eyes narrowed at him and his lips were pursed. His head was slightly tilted to the right, not looking at John straight-forward. He crossed his arms over his chest. "If there is something I can do for you, please tell me so that you may stop pestering me so." Sherlock's tone was like a slap to the face. It was sharp and harsh—certainly harsher than he meant, John thought.

John faltered, the books in his grasp slipping with the rapidly increasing amount of sweat on his palms. "I-I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you are saying."

"What I am saying," Sherlock snapped, "is what do you want from me, Watson?" Anger flared across Sherlock's eyes like a flame burning across a forest. John took a small step backwards, a bit of apprehension rising in his chest. He stammered, looking anywhere but Sherlock.

"I don't want anything," was his lame reply.

"Then, if that is so, would you kindly leave me be?" He huffed and turned around, quickly walking away. John pushed his eyebrows together in confusion and raced after him, jogging next to him to keep up with the other's pace. The darker haired boy glanced over at him from the corner of his eye.

"Look, I don't want anything from you, okay? I just…." He paused, fighting himself about whether or not to tell him. "I… I saw you." Sherlock looked at him with a questioning look. "It wasn't long ago—a few days, maybe. I stayed after to help a kid in biology and when I walked out and started heading to my car, I say you. You were leaning against the side of the school and you looked….broken." John's voice had dipped to just above a whisper, his eyes brimming with empathy for Sherlock. The younger Holmes looked back at John, a sort of fear passing through. He opened his mouth, but was unable to form any words. He clamped his mouth shut and ran a nervous hand through the curls atop his head. "I know you aren't exactly like the rest of the student body, but that doesn't make you a freak. People are mean, I get that—"

"You think that was because of a few idiots calling me names?" John fell silent, giving a small nod in response. Sherlock snorted. "I can handle Anderson and Donovan. They have less intelligence than most of this school. They don't hurt me."

"But it builds up."

"Excuse me?"

"The names they call you. They are like tiny paper cuts. Individually, they are nothing more than just an irritating flash of sting, but they multiply. It builds up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing his way past John. "Just leave me alone," Sherlock muttered. John didn't follow him. He let out a breath and stared down at the book in his arms. Perhaps that wasn't such a smooth move….

He didn't realize he said it allowed until a voice behind me answer his thought. "Perhaps not, Mr. Watson." His head snapped around and he looked at who belonged to the voice. A man stood behind him, his hair several shades darker than John's and his eyes lighter than his own. A small smirk played at the corners of his lips, his head cocked to the side as he observed the lighter haired male. "Sherlock is a bit touchy, I'm afraid."

"And, you are?"

"Please excuse my rudeness. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock's elder brother." He held out a slender hand for John to shake. The other looked down at it, dumbfounded for a moment before he took Mycroft's hand in his own.

They met gazes for a moment before John dropped their hands and looked away. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please," Mycroft said, holding up his hand in a halting gesture, "call me Mycroft." The older man smiled down at John, twirling an umbrella in his hand. John found it strange, seeing as it wasn't raining outside.

Shaking his head, he returned Mycroft's smile. "Mycroft, it was a pleasure meeting you. If I may, what are you doing here?"

Mycroft looked at John as if he had three heads. "Well, I'm here for Sherlock, obviously. I'm afraid he's been feeling a bit under the weather recently, and I'm here to take him to his therapist." _He has a therapist?_ John nodded his head in understand, shifting the books in his hands. "Shouldn't you be getting to class, hmm?"

"Uh, no, I have a free period. I usually go to the library to study, but I was talking to Sherlock." John had never felt as nervous as he did talking to Holmes the elder. It was odd because he didn't look all that menacing, but it was something about Mycroft that put John off. He shuffled his feet nervously, casting a glance up at Mycroft.

He smiled at John, slightly bowing to him. _Do they all do that or…?_ John wondered to himself about the bowing. "Then, I shan't keep you another moment. If you'll excuse me…." Mycroft walked around John, following in the general direction of where Sherlock headed. John was once again left alone. Not knowing what to do, he awkwardly made his way to the school's library. What Mycroft had said to him made him wonder about Sherlock. If he had a therapist, perhaps he wasn't as okay as he said he was. And, certainly, the way Mycroft talked about his brother with a sort of distant smile, made John suspect the pair weren't as close as Mycroft wished for John to believe. He had heard that the siblings had never been close, but it all went downhill when Mycroft left for university, almost abandoning Sherlock. Everyone knew that Mycroft was Sherlock's counterpart—his anchor—and when he left, Sherlock almost shut down. John assumed that's why he always wore an emotionless mask.

Whatever the reason might have been, John wasn't entirely sure of the competence of the elder Holmes. But, he noted to himself, looks can be deceiving.

School ended and everyone in the library rose from their seats and streamed out the door. All, of course, with the exception of John. He sat in the back, a thick book perched on his lap. His eyes scanned over the words, taking in everything he could. His eyes blurred from sleep deprivation, but he shook himself awake every time he felt himself nodding off. A yawn tore itself free from his mouth, causing him to pause his reading and just _yawn_. His hands rubbed at his eyes and he continued reading.

The book was an old edition of medical use. It explained how medicine evolved over its four-thousand year reign, evolving as humans did. He always found it fascinating, especially due to the fact that he, himself, wished to go into the medical field as a doctor. Still, it was always essential to know and acknowledge past practices.

He barely looked up when he heard the library doors shut, assuming it was just Mr. Hayden, the librarian, closing it while he made his way to the teacher's lounge for a few hours before he had to return and lock it up. His assumption was incorrect, however. A light coughing sound stirred John from his reading. His eyes trailed up and landed on Sherlock's face. He raised both his eyebrows at him. "Oh, why…hello." John placed his thumb on the page he was on and pressed the front half of the book on top of it, marking his place without seeming rude.

Sherlock nodded at John in resignation and sat down next to him. He placed his hands over his lips like he always did whenever they were in class. John blinked over at him, a sort of perplexed expression crossing his face. He opened his mouth to speak his confusion, but Sherlock cut him off. "If you are wondering what I am doing here, don't bother asking. I am being forced to come and speak to you." John clamped his mouth shut, his eyes falling onto the book in front of him. He gave a lame "oh" as response and lapsed into silence. The two boys were quiet for a moment, Sherlock not really moving and John twitching like he had an itch in an embarrassing area. Sherlock spoke. "I apologize."

"What?" John looked over at him, confused and sort of dazed.

"That's why I am here, after all. To apologize. It was a highly recommended activity by… Someone I speak with on occasion."

"You mean your therapist?" John didn't mean to say it aloud, but it slipped out. He mentally slapped himself repeatedly, cursing himself for being such a fool. Sherlock flinched at the word, but gave a curt nod. John bit his lip and looked at the other side of the room. "If that's all you came here for—"

"No, there's more."

"Then, please be my guest."

Sherlock looked over at John from the corner of his eye. They ran up and down John's body, making him feel as if he were looking right through his clothes. He shifted as not to feel so violated, but alas, it did not help. When Sherlock stopped, he let out a hum. He slid his gaze back up to lock onto John's. "Sibling issues?" John barely heard it, but he felt the blood drain from his face. His eyes had widened slightly and his mouth dropped open. Sherlock smirked. "Must be a fairly big disagreement, seeing as you are much more tense and slept less last night. It's something petty, but it still bothers you more than anything else had.

"Your father passed away not too long ago, leaving your mother alone to raise two children through high school and university. This forces her to work longer shifts to earn more money, therefore she comes home depleted and worn out. You, being the humanitarian you are, offer to help around with cooking and cleaning and all that whilst she rests. Of course, that comes with a catch.

"You have a sibling, one you don't get along with that entirely well, even prior to your father's untimely death. With the newly added stress of studying for your entrance exams and finals, you get along even worse. Harry, your brother, is a cheeky devil. He enjoys teasing and tormenting you beyond sanity. He also likes flaunting his significant other around you, going by the way you have a disgruntled set to your jaw, signifying you constantly catch them doing tasteless things such as kissing. This leads to arguments and disagreements that cause you to lay awake late into the night and falling asleep restless. It also adds another layer of worry atop your already burdened shoulders. But, you won't address it because you find it to be petty to worry about the past when you can just move on, but you don't seem to be taking your own advice. You lose sleep and aren't doing as well in class as you normally would—still exceptionally well, if I might say so." John blushed at Sherlock's praise. "All in all, sibling troubles are interfering with your studies and you can't even go home and just read a book to relax because when mummy comes home, John Watson must be the perfect son." Sherlock smirked over at John, a sort of devilish set to his lips. His fingers drummed against one another as he waited for John's response.

John sat silent, gawking at Sherlock. He felt as if Sherlock had reached into his mind and ripped out every single detail that lay within his deepest worries and laid them out for everyone to see. His eyes had widened and his mouth parted slightly. What Sherlock said was…. "Amazing."

Silence.

"What did you say?" Sherlock, evidently confused, snapped his head over to look at John, his eyebrows furrowed tightly together.

"That was absolutely brilliant."

"You think so?"

"Of course! You… That was just fantastic." John looked away from Sherlock, shaking his head from side to side. His fingers had tightened around the edges of the book and they slowly relaxed as what Sherlock had said settled into his mind. John could hardly believe it.

Sherlock didn't say anything at all, rather stared at John with his own confusion. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out. He crossed his arms over his chest and focused on the old, worn-out rug under his feet. John's didn't even touch the ground… Gnawing on his lip, he turned to John. "I suppose it begs the question. What did I get wrong?"

"Harry," John started, slowly turning his head to Sherlock's, "is short for Harriet."

Sherlock's face went blank. "Sister. It's your sister." John gave a small shrug, laughing as he nodded. Sherlock slapped himself in the head, muttering to himself that he was an idiot. John placed his hand on Sherlock's upper arm.

"I know it might not mean much, but I think you're brilliant." A small, half-smile tugged at his lips. Sherlock blinked at John.

"Thank you," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. John nodded.

"Anything else? Going to tell me about how my eighth cousin three times removed is a gay, axe-murder or something of the like?"

"Now that's just silly," Sherlock remarked, waving a dismissive hand at John.

"Right, of course it is." He laughed, ducking down his head.

Sherlock licked his lips, rubbing his hands against his thighs. It was a nervous habit he used to have when he was younger, but he had thought he had outgrown it—clearly wrong. "If I may so bold as to say one last thing?" John smiled and gestured for him to continue. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at his knees. "I was told to come down and find you to apologize for my rude behavior, of course, but that isn't the core reason I chose to. It's more like an excuse." John knitted his eyebrows together. "I suppose, to put it bluntly, I've noticed you."

"What do you—"

"I noticed you from the first day of freshman year. You were something different. I don't understand what it is about you, but it's there. You are a whole new thing to me, John Watson. And, you only further proved it to me that day months ago when you stayed back and helped me with that pointless test." John chuckled, his mouth twitching with a faint grin. "Some might say that I can be dubbed as the most observant child—no, _person_—at this establishment, so very little gets by me. And, you weren't exactly subtle with your observing of me. Still, I didn't call you out on it because I actually didn't mind the attention you paid to me. I…rather enjoyed it really." A light color flushed to Sherlock's cheeks as his voice dipped to a softer volume. "I suppose, what I mean to say is that, I've never felt an attraction to another person in all my life. So, it was weird at first. But, my….therapist told me that perhaps I was starting to feel a bud of attraction. To…." He took a deep breath before focusing his bright and captivating eyes at John, locking John in a gaze that had him mesmerized. "To you, I mean. I'm thinking I have developed emotions….for you. And, my abrupt and somewhat uncalled for deduction of you was a means of seeing whether or not my original thought process of you was correct. And, lo and behold, it was."

John felt his own cheeks flush with color. He bit his lip and fought off a nervous giggle, but he never dropped Sherlock's gaze. It had softened from what he was used to—Hell from what it was mere minutes ago. John swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep, shaky breath. "So, you are saying that you have a crush on me?" Sherlock thought about the phrasing for a moment before giving a small nod of his head. John grinned. "I'm flattered, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock chuckled, returning John's grin. Without their knowing, John and Sherlock found they were closer together, almost pressed to the hip. John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and said, "Then, if that is the truth, may we have a long and beautiful relationship….starting now." With that, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips softly against Sherlock's.

Sherlock widened his eyes, but relaxed into John's touch, placing his hands on John's waist and tugging them closer together. John smiled into the kiss, shifting so that he was straddling Sherlock's hips for better access. He twisted his head, deepening the kiss. Sherlock parted his lips, allowing for John to move on with the kiss. John happily obliged and slid his tongue into Sherlock's, their tongues pressing together and allowing for them to indulge in the taste of one another.

When John pulled back, Sherlock let out a whimper of protest. John chuckled. Their foreheads were pressed together, their noses squished against one another, but smiles were spread widely across their lips. John stared down at Sherlock and Sherlock stared up at John. "Now that we have come to an agreement, that means you have to be subject to my experiments." John crinkled his nose.

"Your what?" He asked, sounding confused.

"Nothing at all," Sherlock cooed, reconnecting their lips in another kiss, flipping John onto his back so that he was hovering over the lighter-hair male. "Don't worry about it and just indulge." His voice was like honey on glass—sweet and sharp at the same time.

And John loved it.

Harry bounded over to her brother as soon as he opened the door; his backpack slung over one shoulder. He blinked surprised at her. A wide grin was spread across her face, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Harriet, what is it?"

"Oh, nothing much, except that my baby brother is a total stud!"

John sputtered. "What?!"

"Don't play dumb with me Jonathan Hamish Watson. You really think that anything that goes down in my school goes without my notice? I have people everywhere at all times—especially on you, my dear." She ran her hand under John's chin, lifting his face upwards. Water brimmed at the edges of her eyes and she sniffed. "My baby brother has finally lost his kissing virginity." John furrowed his brows at her until it dawned on him. His hands instinctively went up to his disheveled hair and tried to smooth it down. His face flushed bright red.

"Harry," he grumbled, ducking down his head. He glared down at his shoes as if it were their fault. Harry giggled at John, kissing him lightly on the cheek. As she sauntered away, she yelled over her shoulder that she would be taking care of dinner. _Great,_ John thought, _it's_ _good to know that we are either having burnt food or cereal. _Sighing, he went up to his room.

An exasperated breath ripped itself from his lungs as he fell face first onto his mattress. The unmade sheets wrapped themselves around him, snuggling him in their warmth. He twisted himself around and snuggled deeper into the soft press of the mattress.


End file.
